Chapter 1 of a Fantasy Novel - An Abandoned Story

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Johnathan laid flat on the dusty floor of the forest and looked out to the Allachie citadel. The mountain sloped gently where he lay. Overhead the wind brushed itself through the leaves of the stringybark trees and blew out of the forest like a long breath. He saw the wind sway the grass along the road that wound itself towards the citadel; he worried whether the uneasiness of the wind was a bad omen. For a moment he watched two Allachie flags, green and black, flap at the citadel gate.

A fly buzzed by his ear and he flinched as if someone was attacking him. He flung his hand out besides him. ‘It’s just a damn fly, John,’ he said, trying to calm himself down.

When the sun sank in the sky, the stone cottages shone white. The air was humid, but he could smell the coming of the night dew. Beside him, he heard a horse and looked to see who it was. A well-dressed man jumped off and walked towards him.

‘Johnathan?’ he called out.

Johnathan stood up and nodded his head. ‘You’re the farmer?’ he asked in the northern language, Arberdeen.

‘Yes.’

‘The map?’

The farmer nodded and passed it to him. Johnathan knelt back on the ground, opened it and compared the map of the citadel to the actual one before him.

‘This citadel,’ Johnathan said, now speaking in Allachien. ‘This is the crown of Allachie?’

‘Yes... You’re not from the north? You have a convincing accent.’

‘I am, but I’ve been a guerrilla fighter for a long time,’ Johnathan replied. ‘I thought citadel would be grander.’

‘The King always thought displays of wealth were… distasteful.’ The man knelt beside Johnathan. ‘It’s grander on the inside though, you’ll see. The party will start just after the sun sets. You must complete the task before then or he’ll be with everyone else. I’ve made sure he’ll be in his quarters as long as possible.’ He pointed towards the map. ‘On the opposite side of the citadel from us, there’s a pathway between the servant’s quarters and his.’

‘Who are you?’

‘If we ever meet again in the North, I’ll tell you then. Everything’s been accounted for; you just need to follow it out until the end.’

Johnathan thought it was a strange thing to say but nodded. He noticed again the man’s finely stitched boots, expensive trousers, and a large black coat.

‘You don’t look like a farmer, you know?’

‘The farmer disguise is only if things go poorly,’ he replied. ‘I’ve set up a carriage and a change of clothes for you just outside the main gate. I’m going to stay in the citadel. I have my own orders from Consul Ardmont.’

‘Oh...’

‘On your approach to the citadel, just walk, and don’t act suspicious.’

‘This King… I was told he’s a tyrant. Is he? Do you know him?’

Johnathan saw the man’s face, stern and bushy, flush in the afternoon glow. He furrowed his brows. ‘The man’s a twisted bastard. Cruel. Especially to the poor and the slaves.’

Johnathan wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt. He looked back down to the citadel, saw the evening envelop it in crimson.

‘You should leave,’ the man said.

Johnathan got up and started walking. He turned back to the informant. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

The man nodded.

As Johnathan got closer, he started seeing peasants working about their homes. There was a large, bearded man cutting wood with an axe and a few women gossiping and picking berries. In the distance, he saw two guards talking as they made their way along the road. Their spears were bright in the last remnants of the evening and both of their figures were squeezing out of their uniforms. He looked back. The evening had left a fog of dust along the hills, shrouding everything from view, except for the black limbs of the trees stretching upwards to the sky.

Johnathan had heard stories of how cruel the Allachie guards were to their prisoners: tortured, hung, drawn, fingernails torn out. He took a wide path around them as he came into the village.

#

Few noticed Johnathan as he hurried through the village. He was, in most ways, a remarkably average man, something that had always irritated him, but now seemed essential. He looked over himself: cotton shoes, trousers, a white tunic — not much for protection, but quiet.

From inside the village he could hear the distant beating of drums, the chatter of voices and the wind moaning through the streets. When he came to the village centre, he saw that there was a festival being celebrated. He spotted a crowd dancing, drinking from sacks, and a woman on a stage, cackling and twirling.

Johnathan looked down at his map, snuck around the festival, and wondered how the peasants in Allachie lived without the technology they had in the north. He watched the woman dance on the stage again, and the other villagers bang their fists on tables. How wild they seemed. He kept moving through the streets, following his map and trying to appear as natural as he could.

It should be here. He looked down at his map again.

While searching, he passed along a church and walked by a line of statues decorating its walls. He had read about Allachie’s strange religion in school and how their current King had renounced it.

As he walked by, he counted off four statues. Each had its head missing, he saw: two sons, a daughter and a mother. The Five Titans of Allachie, he remembered. He glanced around the church to see where the fifth statue was but couldn’t find it. Johnathan felt their eyes watching him, and glanced back at them, checking that they hadn’t moved.

Then he saw, just beyond the church, the servant’s quarters. He stopped, looked down at the map, and thought back over the plan. Every detail had been scrutinised over beforehand. But now he was in Allachie, footsteps away from the King’s room, his thoughts unravelled in every direction. What am I about to do? The act seemed absurd.

Uncontrollably he pictured the murder in his mind. He would sneak up behind the King, like a cat, and slit his throat. It would be effortless. He would even use his shirt or a cloth — if one was around — to stop the mess. It will be clean and clinical. After all, he wasn’t a brute.

He noticed marble ankles sticking out of a stone slab: the fifth Titan, the father. Looking over where the statue would have once stood, he felt a presence bare down upon him.

‘You’re being ridiculous, John,’ he reassured himself as he jumped away. He felt blood pool in his ears. In the distance, he could see a line of carriages shuffling through an intersection and heard muffled voices like broken threads.

An older woman, wearing a feathered dress, walked out of a door, and glanced at Johnathan. She kept her head low and rushed past him. He was afraid she’d hear his heart. But she had a shameful look written across her face, which eased him. She posed no threat. The building she came from was the servant’s quarters.

Standing on the sidewalk, and after checking that she was out of sight, he went in. The room stank of old food and sulphur but was empty. It was lined with wooden tables lit by the dull light of candles. Johnathan crept along the wall with his ears open. Across from him, decorating the wall was a tapestry with pictures of people being carried over the mountains in the hands of a giant.

He entered the servant’s kitchen. It seemed strange that he could sneak this close to the King, without even a sideways glance. How can a King be this comfortable with his servants?

He felt drowsy, rubbed his temple, and slapped himself on the face. The wind outside pulsed. Somewhere a door was banging. In a rush, he hastened through the kitchen and rummaged through draws searching for a knife. Next to an old stew, he picked one up.

Then he heard voices from the next room. ‘Glad we’re done for the day.’

‘Glad, tell ye’ what, ready for a slug down.’

‘I was the one with ‘em a while! Tellin’ ‘em how nice their teeth were with their mouths closed,’ they laughed as they thumped into seats in the servant’s quarters.

Johnathan scurried into the passageway which led to the King’s room.

How am I going to do this? Shit. He peeked back into the kitchen and saw that it was still empty. He couldn’t go back now. It was too late.

He moved through the dark and damp stone passageway that led to a staircase. He put his hand on the wall for support, felt its cold touch.

He paused before a door at the end of the passage, noticed that it was slightly ajar. He felt the knife in his hand, moved his wrist about and listened. The sound of someone moving about on the other side of the door made his heart skip. He held his breath.

When everything was silent, he caressed the door open. He saw the King: a large, fat man in a lavish white gown, stretching his body in a seat which faced out the window. There was nothing in Johnathan’s mind now, only a clear, sharp picture of a slit throat.

Johnathan took a few careful steps through the door. He stayed as low as he could, tip toeing, inching closer. He imagined it again. Clean. Clinical. Just.

At an arm's length, he smelt a musk of what must be cologne coming off the King. He worried he didn’t have the strength…

In a frenzy, he grasped the King’s face with one hand, missing his mouth, feeling his fingers sink into his eye and nose. His other arm swung the knife into his throat. It drove through the King’s skin. The jagged edges of the blade caught, ripped, and tore bits of him out and sprayed them across the floor in a pink mist. His skin peeled away from his neck like taffy. Johnathan, scarcely conscious of himself, beat the knife into him again.

The King let out a whimper and blood drooled from his mouth. Johnathan let go of his body and watched it flop to the floor. Johnathan looked down at himself and noticed his heaving chest, saw that he was drenched in blood. He staggered back.

Below him, he saw that the King’s eyes, wide and wondrous, staring up into the ceiling. It was nothing like Johnathan had imagined. He took a deep breath and sensed a change in the air. The entire act was so easy, yet so immense, so important: a sense of horror and power washed over Johnathan.

In the King’s hand, Johnathan saw a note with ‘Evelyn’ inscribed on it. He watched as it became drenched in blood and withered away into a sodden ball.